


well that is, as the kids say, a Mood.

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Lusty Month of May, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, because this author is tired of plot and just wants porn because plot is ridiculous, in which Zelda is a pettyass bitch and we Stan it, more alliteration and rhyming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: ambrose has been gone for months.hilda is sad.zelda is pouting.- OR -sometimes you have to resort to petty measures to get what you want.





	well that is, as the kids say, a Mood.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the "Zelda has been acting like a brat all week and Hilda decides to finally do something about it. Naughty fun with the possibility of Zelda tied to a bed ensues" prompt.  
> zelda doesn't get tied up tho because i didn't feel like it.

Hilda’s been in a mood.

A sour mood.

A “sighing every other half hour because my precious dumb nephew has been gone for _months_ trying to kill his suddenly-pseudo father figure and I miss him _terribly_ ” mood. 

Zelda is very familiar with this mood.

She hates it.

Because she is also in a mood.

A “pouting the other half hour Hilda isn’t sighing because I haven’t had a proper orgasm in _months_ because Hilda doesn’t fuck when she’s sad and I _also_ miss my nephew but I **_also_ **really need to get laid” mood.

It’s quite the conundrum.

A conundrum of coming.

Or lack, thereof.

Because Hilda keeps going — going to work to distract herself, cooking in the kitchen to distract herself, waiting by the witching board to see if he calls, going back to baking to distract herself.

Sabrina says the waistband of her skirt is going to get too tight.

Zelda says she could always skip out on Hilda’s next batch of brownies.

They both take big bites of rich chocolatey goodness and say nothing.

But something’s got to give.

 

~*~

 

Let it not be said Zelda Spellman sits idly by when something needs fixing.

She tries lifting the mood as subtly as she can.

By dumping a puzzle out onto the parlor table and saying the house demands another pastime to keep satisfied.

Hilda shrugs in acquiescence.

Zelda pats the couch cushion closest to her invitingly, already planning how she’s going to seduce her way into her sister’s floral skirts.

Perhaps sidling up to her. A hand brushing her side to reach for a puzzle piece. A finger trailing the length of her toned forearm.

She’s not above resorting to playing footsie.

To her utter chagrin, Hilda decides to sit on the floor, cross-legged and completely concentrated on finding the corner pieces.

Silly thing doesn’t understand why Zelda huffs and proceeds to act as put out as possible.

At least Hilda looks happy.

Her hair gleams under the lamplight. Zelda feels the compulsion to tug on those curls and watch how they bounce.

Hilda leans over and her dress dips.

Zelda’s mind fills with memories of tugging _other_ Hilda things and watching _them_ bounce too.

She makes it a third of the way through the puzzle before having to excuse herself.

By the time she’s come back down to the parlor, Hilda’s finished the puzzle (although she always leaves the middle piece for Zelda to put in) and is in the solarium, watering herbs and watching as the witching board hums.

And hums.

And hums.

No answer.

Zelda sighs, presses a kiss to Hilda’s distracted brow, and goes to the kitchen to make tea.

It proceeds to be a long night for the both of them.

 

~*~

 

Nobody says second time’s the charm, but Zelda doesn’t care because she’s got charm enough for anything.

Today she’s wearing a dress with a V cut so low it could go all the way down to Venezuela. Her heels so high they go all the way up to heaven. Her lips redder than a bleeding heart or a beating vagina.

Today, _someone_ is going to get fucked.

She hopes beyond all hoping it’s her.

She’s just about to enter the kitchen (she pictures Hilda stammering, eating her up as eye candy, fanning herself with her apron — and then they’ll endeavor to have messy and loud and satisfying counter sex), when there is a horrid knock on the door.

It’s a full minute of quiet railing and ranting and raving before she finally stomps to answer the door.

It opens.

The mailman cannot stop his jaw from dropping.

Zelda is unimpressed.

Speechless, he holds out a letter to her crossed arms.

Before she can untangle her internal tantrum and limbs, a hand reaches from behind her to snatch the letter up.

“Return to sender,” Hilda’s disembodied voice says, tickling Zelda’s ear and going tremulous on emotion.

Zelda glares like a dagger at the mailman, as if it’s his personal fault.

Impaled on it and paling, he tips his hat and flees.

“Oh Zelds — what if he’s dead?” It would almost be a wail if it wasn’t so worried.

She immediately turns, wrapping her arms around her sister and holding the crumbling woman together, trying and failing to find words of comfort.

She looks back to the escaping man — eyes going squinty till her spell finds its target.

He trips as she turns.

Foolishly curses his own clumsiness as she slams the front door closed.

In a “scraped hands, knees, and face full of dirt” sort of way, the mailman gets fucked.

 

~*~

 

Hell hath no fury like a woman on a warpath.

Zelda would know, because she’s on one.

Hilda is currently in the bathtub, soaking and sipping Chardonnay and resolutely staying in there by herself, and Zelda honestly cannot take it anymore.

In her empty bedroom, she circles herself with candles. Chants with precision. Chants with feeling.

She finds Ambrose in a tent, looking well fed and whole, but mildly unhappy.

“ _You_.”

His eyes go wide as he goes pale.

“Where have you been?”

Even a snake could not have hissed those words quite so well.

“Why haven’t you called?”

His mouth opens.

“Written?”

His mouth closes.

“Projected home? Done something to let me know you’re still _alive_?”

“Now Auntie. . .” He tries to cajole.

It is deeply, heinously, in error.

“And what about your Aunt Hilda? She’s been worried sick! Driving herself up the wall waiting for you, cooking a storm but not eating a thing, praying but unsure who to pray to which causes her even more distress. She’s falling apart.”

A pause.

“And it’s _annoying_.”

He reaches out to her, knowing how touch tends to soothe her ire, when a psychopomp flaps onto a tent stake.

No time to attempt to hug it out. An apology is due.

“I’m sorry, Auntie. Truly.”

Zelda’s ruffled feathers (and the psychopomp’s) start to settle.

The poor boy makes another miscalculation.

“ _But_ I’ve been very busy, so I don’t know when I’ll have time — “

She stomps toward him, and though he knows she can’t physically touch him, he is utterly (and rightfully) terrified.

“Make. Time. Or _else_.”

He gulps.

Nods fiercely.

She deems it satisfactory.

Takes a step back and sighs.

“I don’t care when or what or how, but come visit us, Ambrose. We’re family.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

She takes another step back, sees how he’s still green around the gills. Smirks.

“Oh. And Ambrose.”

“Yes, Auntie?”

She smiles a real smile, and it’s a dash of home.

“It was good to see you.”

 

~*~

 

She shouldn’t have told him she didn’t care when.

It’s been days.

Hilda’s still sighing, so she’s still pouting, and there’s been no signs he’s going to show up.

Frustration bubbles infernal.

There’s so much tension in her body — energy and tight muscles crying out for release with no relief in sight — so she does what she has always done.

She takes it out on Hilda.

Not with murder.

Though her fingers certainly itch for _some_ type of action.

But she won’t do it ever again, so instead it’s in little things.

Snatching things from Hilda’s grasp when she wants something instead of asking for it.

Purposefully bumping into Hilda when they cross in hallways.

Sticking Vinegar Tom near the oven so he can warm his paw toes and Hilda can trip over him.

Hilda takes all this within her and says nothing.

She sighs a little louder, but truth be told and the whole house knows it — Hilda loves feeling put upon.

So she suffers in silence and takes no action.

Zelda pouts and knows the passive is purposeful.

_Now_ , it’s personal.

Now she uses Hilda’s favorite teacup for her coffee, making sure her dark red lipstick stains it.

Now she loads the dishwasher (something Hilda is _very_ particular about), bending over and making sure Hilda has a clear view of just how much of her good China is going in.

Now she sticks her laundry in Hilda’s basket, her red lacy intimates and underthings in Hilda’s white cottons and mixing it all to pink.

It’s the last one that does it.

“This is some grade A bitchery.”

Hilda hisses just as well as Zelda, waving her clean and pink-colored clothes in her sister’s face.

She paces the carpets of their bedroom, finally wild and ready to fight

Zelda’s expression is impassive and bored.

“I’m sure it is. Who did it?”

If Hilda gets to play victim, she gets to play ignorant.

“Don’t you dare — you’re nearly _three hundred_ , Zelda. You _know_ how to do laundry.”

Hilda’s chest is heaving. Zelda’s pulse quickens at the sight.

She steps a step closer. Hilda steps a step back.

“Maybe I’ve been a little distracted.”

Hilda’s marching up till she’s nose to nose with her taller sister, nostrils flaring. Pupils dilated.

“Yes, I can see how making my life a constant aggravation can be distracting.”

“Well,” And now Zelda’s drawling, because she’s still got the upper hand and upper inches, and Hilda’s glaring at her lips.

“You won’t fuck me. How else was I supposed to occupy my time?”

Hilda growls and she laughs but the laughter cuts short as Hilda tugs her by the hair and pulls her down to meet her mouth.

 

~*~

 

A riled Hilda just might be her favorite sight.

Her clothes are already ripped and on the floor — Hilda had pushed her onto the bed and there she had stayed.

Because Hilda on top.

_Yes please_.

She doesn’t care that her favorite bra breaks, because Hilda’s hands are greedy and full up of her breasts.

She whines and shoves up into the touch, Hilda grunts against her mouth as her thigh rubs the right places.

“You could have just told me you needed this,” Hilda says, tugging a rosy nipple taut between her thumb and forefinger. “You didn’t have to be so drastic.”

She pulls hard, let’s it drop only to smack it.

The pale skin pinkens as the breast bounces.

Zelda gasps, thrusting her thigh harder against Hilda’s mound.

Hilda tuts, moving so Zelda can’t touch her. Can only be touched.

Zelda makes noise, but really it’s delight.

Anticipation.

“Someone’s needy.” Hilda comments, a hand rubbing slow on Zelda’s heaving ribcage.

“And who withheld to make me that way?”

She receives a swat to the stomach for that. The abdomen clenches.

“And so mouthy too. How naughty.”

She can’t help the way her body wriggles at that.

“Are you going to _punish_ me?”

“I think I have to. Turn over.”

She bites down a squeal as she hastens to comply.

Can’t hold back the hiss as her sore breast hits the sheets.

Hilda’s hands are cool on her back, rubbing the lines her shoulders and scars make, gathering up amber tresses and pushing them over so the neck is exposed. Places wet hot kisses down in a long line.

She sighs, arching her back because the throb between her legs demands it.

Hilda reaches a hand down, tests the slick.

Her fingers come away dripping. She suckles at the taste on them.

Both her and Zelda moan.

“How long have you been needing this?” Hilda asks, fingers grazing Zelda’s cheek, her free hand caressing Zelda’s backside.

“Awhile.”

It’s hard to admit it, and not just because Zelda’s a little lost in the sensation of Hilda’s index finger occasionally gliding over her aching slit.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hilda’s kaleidoscope eyes carry such concern, even clouded over by hazy lust and desire.

“You were sad, missing Ambrose. I didn’t want to bother you.”

That rogue finger circles her clit, she jolts as Hilda sighs.

“So instead of talking to me, which wouldn’t bother me, you decided to annoy the living daylights out of me — which would, _in fact_ , bother me?”

Hilda slides a finger in velvety depths, Zelda groans and pushes into it.

“Yes.” She gasps, hands clenching the sheets.

Hilda shakes her head once and pulls her hand away.

Zelda is just about to complain, when there’s a sharp _smack!_ on her ass.

Heat blooms like a handprint.

Her cunt throbs like a heartbeat.

“Sister dearest, you have astounding logic.”

And then pain and pleasure are mixing.

Hilda alternates between spanking her ass and stroking at her slit, hot fingers always so gentle on her clit before she starts up again.

Zelda edges twice, but just as she’s on the brink, Hilda stops.

Strong, baking hands knead her back muscles till she’s stopped her near-climax clenching, pulling and rubbing till she’s warm and pliant and ready to be teased all over again.

The third time she edges, she wails because it’s a lot and it’s good but it’s not enough.

Hilda shushes her gently, rolls her over and kisses her soft. There’s contrast between Hilda’s cool lips and the fire emanating from Zelda’s cheeks — she could come just from that.

A flat hand on Zelda’s lower abdomen palpates a rhythm to help her slow down.

“Next time,” Zelda gasps. “I need to come.”

“I know, sweetheart. And you will. A reward for how good you’ve been for me.”

Zelda whimpers and kisses Hilda with a bruising sort of hunger.

Hilda’s magic fingers slide back down, two between Zelda’s folds and she cries out, already there at the jumping point.

“Look at you,” Hilda breathes. “Look how beautiful you are.”

“I know I’m beautiful,” Zelda snaps, desperation sweating her brow. “Just fuck me. _Now._ ”

Hilda laughs but pushes in another finger, setting a rhythm of slow and full thrusts.

Her thumb rubs on Zelda’s clit as the redhead grinds down against her sister’s palm with graceless enthusiasm.

“Oh Zelda. Ever the romantic.”

And then the pace picks up, rolling within and unrelenting.

Hilda hits something deep in her and she shudders, nearly on the cusp of every satisfaction.

“Wait just a little longer,” Hilda asks quietly.

Zelda can feel her head shaking as her folds tremble, but she tries because Hilda asked her to, and she’ll do just about anything to keep her from stopping that devilish and delicious grind.

Then Hilda holds Zelda’s right hand and takes three fingers into her mouth, suckling them tight.

“This is what you feel like around me.”

And then Zelda’s coming.

In bursts, in bright flashes, in clenching pulses that ripple all through her body.

It lasts and _lasts_ and feels like utter fulfillment.

Hilda takes her fingers out of her mouth and kisses her palm.

“Hilda.” She murmurs as the pulses begins to fade.

Stretches sore muscles, sated and tranquil and bright.

Hilda beams, pulling her fingers from her sticky cunt, wiping them on her own thigh, leaning down to kiss Zelda’s bitten and swollen lips.

“Feeling better?”

Zelda sighs into her.

Then —

“Finally. It was about damn time.”

Hilda laughs, but then she pinches the inner, tender part of Zelda’s arm. Hard enough to bruise.

Zelda squirms.

“Don’t you _ever_ put my China in the dishwasher again, or there will be heaven to pay.”

 

~*~

 

It takes another week, but Ambrose does indeed come home.

He brings a ragged Prudence with him, and several young coven-less witches and warlocks he’d found along their way.

Hilda hugs him for a solid seven minutes and doesn’t let him go.

Zelda goes for a respectable five.

Sabrina hugs him for 30 seconds before getting distracted by their new guests and asking a thousand and one questions.

They eat dinner together and it feels like family plus a few more, and it’s definitely like home completed.

Ambrose promises to come back more and keep in contact.

Hilda smiles and tears up.

Zelda looks on in quiet approval because the mood is happy.

And then she smirks, because she knows how to get around moods.

Ambrose had better visit more often _indeed_ , but she doesn’t need his presence to fix anything anymore.

She’s a witch who does what she wants, and gets what she wants.

By any means necessary.

And if those means constitute letting Vinegar Tom warm himself by the stove as Zelda commits some grade A bitchery. . .

Well.

No one really minds.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading the smuttysmut. give momma some Moods


End file.
